


Maybe Next Time

by nox_candida



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Multi, Orgasm Denial, Power Dynamics, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I promised you something a long time ago."</p><p>It has been years, years, since their last meeting, since a promise passed John Watson's lips, and even while Major James Sholto instinctively gasps in shock and arousal at the reminder, he can't help wondering if this remark is inappropriate, given the circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Next Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [come_at_once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/). fleetwood_mouse titled their tagging post "never gonna finish" and hiddenlacuna commented that they thought this was going to be the prompt, rather than what it actually was: "do that again." I decided to use both.

"I promised you something a long time ago."

It has been years, _years_ , since their last meeting, since a promise passed John Watson's lips, and even while Major James Sholto instinctively gasps in shock and arousal at the reminder, he can't help wondering if this remark is inappropriate, given the circumstances.

He clears his throat. "Congratulations are in order, I should think."

Watson--John, as he should call him now--nods and grins. Something about it sets James's heart pumping faster in a way that it hasn't since his last, ill-fated mission in Afghanistan.

***

It starts on the very first day, at the moment that he sets eyes on his new unit and spots a short, blond head among the nondescript and utterly forgettable faces disembarking.

Looking back, he will never be sure exactly what it is that stands out about one of the new lieutenants--whether it is the sun reflecting off his golden hair, or the way he is short and pleasingly sturdy, or if it's the lopsided grin that he shoots to one of the nurses that passes by. Sometimes James wonders if--had he been looking in another direction, or if he'd blinked at that precise moment, or even if he'd been standing in another place in the hall--things might have turned out differently.

But no, he was standing at that exact point where the sunlight from outside refracted off of a blond head and he was in the perfect position to see--and staring straight at--John Watson as he grinned flirtatiously at a pretty nurse and he had already lost before he knew there was a battle to win.

***

John Watson is going to kill him.

Somehow--in the brief amount of time that James has known him--Watson is _everywhere_. He turns up at the officer's lounge and is the life of the party, cracking jokes with the soldiers, flirting with the nurses (male and female alike), and always manages to leave with _someone_ hanging off of his arm.

James can't escape the whispers about Watson, the gossip that everyone seems to have some interest in. _'Did you hear Murray screaming last night?'_ someone will ask, a knowing look in their eye and a grin on their face. _'We all did,'_ someone else will answer.

Indeed. James turns away, hiding the blush that is no doubt creeping up his neck, and spots Watson leaning over to grab a chart, having apparently dropped it.

The sight of Watson's arse, while enticing, has nothing on what happens next, when the man straightens up and glances over his shoulder, eyes locking with James's, and a slow, confident, sultry smile slides across his lips.

James clears his throat, executes a perfect about-face, and marches clear of the hospital towards a meeting he's just remembered he's late for with Major Thompson.

***

"Watson."

"Sir."

James shivers, though he does his best to repress it. This is the last place he wants to be, passing John Watson in the hallway, with no one else around. Especially if Watson is going to look at him like that--with his bright eyes and his grin, and the tongue that keeps flicking out to lick his lips.

And _especially_ if he’s going to sound like that, breathy and sultry and so damn tempting.

James marches away, cursing the ever-present heat in Afghanistan that wreaks havoc on his fair skin.

***

A man can only take so much before he breaks, and James’s breaking point is Watson breezing into the gym showers covered in sweat and already removing his shirt.

Once again, there is no one there but the two of them, and if James hadn't known better (and even though he did, he was still very suspicious), he'd think Watson was planning this.

But no, there's Watson--hair dark with sweat and plastered to his skull except for the one cowlick that defies gravity and stands straight up, gloriously tan skin unselfconsciously on display--not even looking at him and yet looking good enough to eat.

"Watson," he says, gasps really, before he can think better of it and is rewarded somewhat with Watson's head popping up and turning, eyes focused on him.

He gulps as Watson licks his lips, then glances around at the empty showers and grins. "Yes, sir."

And before James can do so much as blink, Watson is crashing into him, pushing him back under the spray and up against the tile, a tsunami of damp, warm skin and firm, powerful lips and James is under before he even knows what has hit him, cannot tell which way is up as Watson crowds into him, runs compact, capable doctor's hands over his shoulders and chest.

James pulls away after a moment or an eternity--he's not sure which--in order to try to catch his breath. "What--"

"Sir," Watson breathes, lips twitching up into a smirk and his eyelids fluttering, "we don't have much time," he continues, dropping his (strong, capable, _wonderful_ ) hand to rub at James's erection, already half-hard and rapidly growing harder. "Murray and Thompson will come in at any minute."

"Christ," James breathes, nearly out of breath at the thought of the situation that he's in. If they're ever caught...

"I think you like it," Watson whispers into his ear and grips him firmly, James's hips bucking in reflex, completely out of his control.

Rapidly becoming a theme in his life, actually.

"You must be quiet, sir," Watson whispers again, voice urgent, a curious emphasis on 'sir' that leaves James's knees trying to buckle. The firm, nearly unbearable grip around his cock is not helping.

Is, in fact, making him more desperate. _Please_ , he almost says, swallows and manages to turn it into some sort of inarticulate grunt at the last minute.

Watson smirks and leans closer. "If there were more time, I'd get on my knees and suck you off, sir," he says and James bites his lip so hard he thinks he tastes blood. "I wouldn't let you come right away, though," he continues, pausing to nibble on James's earlobe. "I'd make you beg me for it."

God, but he should be ashamed of himself, one of his subordinates--a man he expects to obey him on a daily basis--is _telling him_ what to do.

It absolutely shouldn't be hot, but it is.

"But only if you're good," Watson says, a hint or a tease--James isn't sure which--but before he can do more than sqiurm and contain whatever embarrassing noise is trying to escape from the back of his throat, he hears the doors to the shower slam open and the raised voices that signal the approach of others.

But before he buggers off as if nothing has happened, Watson squeezes his dick once and winks at him.

***

Later that night, when he's finally alone and in bed, his hand strays to his cock and he imagines those lips and that tongue and for a moment, arousal overcomes the embarrassment and the shame and he begins to stroke himself while thinking of Watson on his knees in front of him.

But it only lasts for a moment before the shame overtakes him and he curls over onto his side, hands fisted into his sheets.

His erection doesn't flag at all and the only relief he finds that night is in unconsciousness.

***

In the days following, the thought of what might have been and what could be torments him until he breaks once again and calls Watson into his office for a 'meeting.'

The truth of the matter is that Watson barely closes the door behind him before James pulls him close and presses him into the wall, mouthing Watson's neck but stopping himself from leaving a mark.

"Sir," Watson gasps, sounding surprised, and James takes pleasure in that, that he has finally turned the tables and will show Watson--once and for all--who is in charge of whom.

"You promised me something the other day, Watson," he mutters, licking and sucking at Watson's neck and cupping the smaller man through his trousers.

Of course, he should know better than to think that it's going to be as easy as that.

"Oh, sir," Watson murmurs and James is just pulling away to get a better look at Watson's face when the man ducks around him, grabs his arms and presses him into the wall. He only barely manages to avoid a broken nose by turning so his face at the last minute.

"What--" he moans, desperately aroused and confused and suddenly aware that his hastily concocted plans have been turned on their ear.

"Shh." Watson's hips are grinding into his arse, James's cheek is mashed uncomfortably against the wall, and he cants his hips back to keep his erection from suffering the same fate. That this just brings his arse into better contact with what Three Continents Watson has in his trousers is an indignity he is forced to bear.

"Now, you were saying?" Watson grunts, one of his hands releasing James's arm to come around and grope at his cock.

James hisses, clenching his eyes shut at how intense and frantic and dirty this all feels. Sordid. He's so caught up in it that trying to put his jumbled thoughts into words proves beyond him.

"Nothing?" Watson asks, his breath coming a bit quicker, shallower. "I think I need to remind you that I made no promises; I only said it was a possibility, _if you were good_."

Suddenly, Watson squeezes his cock again, but this time it's at the base right near his balls and it's pressure without friction. Too much would probably drive him mad.

"I don't think you deserve a reward. Do you, sir?"

James is dimly aware that Watson's hold on his arms isn't terribly secure; if he were motivated, he could break it and turn the tables once again.

And yet...

It's as if Watson's grip on his cock is all there is. His world has narrowed to that point of contact and his mind can't seem to escape. He can't even seem to struggle, his body waving the white flag without his permission or evem input.

Watson nips at his ear and he jumps, and then groans. Watson hasn't let up one bit, even while his thrusts are growing frantic and his breath is punctuated with little _ah_ sounds and quiet grunts.

James presses his cheek more firmly against the wall and pants in sympathy, tries to move his hips in time but with such a limited range of motion he doesn't get very far.

Shame and arousal wash over him, goosebumps rising up on his arms when he realises that Watson is close, is about to come, and that he's just using James to get there.

Watson grunts and stills and James feels like he's been punched in the gut, as if he's just run a marathon. He's winded and his muscles ache and his blood is rushing so hard and fast that he can hardly hear anything over the noise.

"Mmm," Watson groans, and James shivers. He can almost picture what serene afterglow looks like on John Watson's face and, in combination with the knowledge that Watson has just come in his _trousers_...

James knees begin to buckle on him and it's only Watson's quick thinking--his grip leaving James's cock and wrapping around his waist--that prevents him from an embarrassing spill to the floor in his own office.

Watson helps him to his desk chair and all he has the ability to do is gape at him while Watson straightens his own clothing and makes a face at the mess he's made in his own trousers.

James gulps and his desperately aching cock twitches.

"Well, sir," Watson says, smirking at him. "I think that was a good start, but you'll need to do more next time."

And with a cheeky salute--while winking!--Watson marches out of his office, leaving James to stare after him, a tangled mix of humiliation, pride, arousal, and embarrassment lodged in his chest.

***

It's not the last time, either. There's the time when Watson sets up a meeting to discuss 'supplies', which is so transparent as to be laughable, yet ends up with James supported against a crate of recently received medicine while Watson blows him.

He doesn't get to come that time, either, but he gets closer than he did before.

Then there's another encounter in the showers. James always goes hot and cold when he thinks about being pressed up against the wall and carefully cleaned inside and out before the feeling of that damnable tongue up his arse.

He's never allowed to come.

There's always _something_. Sometimes they're interrupted--in which case Watson doesn't come, either--and sometimes Watson will finish and sit back and dares James to touch himself, to finish himself off.

In those circumstances, James will fix his clothes--or put them back on--and try to compose himself, lacing his fingers together and keeping them within Watson's line of sight.

He tries to convince himself that he doesn't stand taller and straighter when Watson tilts his head in acknowledgement, that if his bearing is perfectly military for hours afterward it's only because he's frustrated and stiff, rather than proud.

It's a good thing he doesn't have to convince anyone but himself, though, for he'd sure fail.

***

And then there's his birthday, when his unit gets together and gifts him with the most hideous purple satin knickers. There must be something about the look on his face, because his officers in particular are falling all over themselves in helpless laughter.

Watson recovers himself quicker than the rest and pushes a small box towards him with a note asking him to open it later.

James waits until he's alone to do so and--through the heat that rises into his cheeks and ears--he's distantly grateful that he does.

It's a cock ring.

He's flushing and he shuts the box quickly in embarrassment, as if there's anyone present to see it.

There's not, but he's not surprised when Watson shows up with an intense look in his eye and a predatory smirk on his face.

"Put it on, sir."

James does, and is rewarded when Watson stares at him, licking his lips. "I have a treat for you, sir," he says and turns around to undress. When he bends over to remove his trousers and pants, James notices something unusual, something purple.

"Is that...?"

Watson twists around so that he's glancing at James over his shoulder, arse still on full display. "A plug. I have big plans for you tonight, sir."

James shivers.

He loses track of time and only remembers flashes of it later: Watson, turned away on all fours, slowly removing the plug and groaning obscenely loud; promising to keep his hands clutching to the headboard and reveling in the satisfied smile that Watson bestows on him, and then--finally, _finally_ \--Watson guiding James's cock into him, slowly sinking into heat and wet and tight, jaw slack and thigh muscles aching. Watson's face in that moment is exquisite--his lips swollen and pink from biting and kissing, his eyes closed in ecstasy--and the noises he makes are nearly enough to send James over the end, cock ring be damned.

But James doesn't want this to end, or at least not like that, and so he holds his breath and goes still and grips at the headboard with everything he has as Watson begins to ride him, to test and tempt him to fall to pieces.

Watson leans in close to him and groans. "Oh, yes sir! Like that," he moans, as if James is doing anything other than laying there, letting himself be used for Watson's own pleasure.

He gulps and almost comes, closing his eyes to stave it off, but the sensation of finally fucking Watson--even if it's really Watson fucking him--is threatening to tip over into too much and to shatter what remains of his self-control.

"You're, uh, so good, sir," Watson moans and then he's coming, semen spurting onto James's stomach and Watson's arse clenching rhythmically around his cock. 

James moans and his eyes flutter and the tension that has been steadily building, the promise of release and relief that's been lurking for what feels like ages, rears up, crests, and cr--

"No," Watson growls and grips his hair, tugging roughly, and the pain bursts through the wave of pleasure, leaving it to hang there, threatening. "Not yet," Watson says, tone suddenly firm and unyielding and James is forced to breathe through his nose, wound tight and clenched, every single muscle pulled taut to keep everything bottled up.

He can never remember how long he hovers on the knife edge of control, utterly motionless and arrested by the determined look in Watson's eyes.

But soon enough, the immediate danger passes and he sinks into the mattress, his muscles twitching and sore.

"Good, sir," Watson breathes, sounding awed.

James merely lets out a harsh breath, beyond words and thought, utterly unable to move.

"Tomorrow," Watson promises, gently cleaning oversensitised skin with a soft flannel. "Tomorrow."

***

But there is no word from Watson the next day and, when he's finally woken late in the night by a sergeant and told the news--bullet wound, unconscious, infection, critical--he dismisses the man and sits at the edge of the bed, picking at the stray threads of his pyjama top.

It's not and has never been about love or feelings--though he is fond of Watson and likes and respects him as a friend and colleague. Provided Watson survives and is shipped home, James knows he won't pine after the man.

But there's a nagging sense of incompletion, of restlessness that comes from a job left undone that strikes him at the strangest moments.

It varies in strength and sometimes he'll go days without noticing it, but it forever lingers at the back of his mind, especially in the lonely nights when he's exhausted and even his hand requires too much effort and thought.

He mostly resigns himself to it and pushes forward with a stiff upper lip.

***

Recovering in hospital after a near fatal stab wound doesn’t take as long as he would otherwise expect. The fact that he’s in a private hospital and he has no visitors isn’t terribly shocking, given how he’s had to live his life.

The fact that he wishes it were otherwise is no one’s business but his own.

Perhaps that’s why it’s such a shock to wake in the middle of the night, disoriented, and to see a small, compact man with blond hair and dark eyes smiling at him.

“Wat--John?”

"Sir," John greets, a small smile gracing his face.

"What--what time is it?"

"Very early, sir. Or very late, I suppose."

James grimaces and clears his throat, deciding to bypass the obvious question. "Call me James."

"Oh, I couldn't, sir," John answers, smiling a bit wider. "You're in hospital, and I have it on good authority that you like it when I say it that way."

James gulps and opens his mouth to refute that, by finds himself unable to. “I’m being released tomorrow,” he says instead.

John does not look surprised by this. “Good,” he replies.

Silence reigns for a moment, turning uncomfortable. James yawns, only slightly exaggerated, turning his face away out of politeness. “Well…”

“We never finished out conversation from earlier.”

Whatever awkward dismissal James is about to utter dies a swift death. “Uh…”

James hears more than sees John lean forward, closer. “I made a promise years ago that I’ve not been able to keep.”

“Is this really the time?” James asks and regrets it when John smirks at him.

“Can you think of a better one?”

James, tongue-tied from a sudden surge of arousal and apprehension, looks on helplessly as John leans closer and those lips brush against his ear.

“It’s all I’ve been able to think about.”

James makes a disbelieving sound and shivers when John quietly chuckles in his ear. “Or, well, _nearly_ all. Especially after what happened…”

“It,” James rasps, then clears his throat, “No worse than Afghanistan.”

“Mmm,” John murmurs in agreement, capturing James’s earlobe between his teeth and sucks lightly. James gasps and shifts in the bed carefully. His stomach is still incredibly tender.

“What about Mary?” he gasps out, when one of John’s hands smoothes down his chest and presses on a nipple. The hospital gown crinkles roughly, loudly in the silence, and he has to grit his teeth not to moan at the sensation.

“What about her?” John asks, nonchalant. “She ordered me to give her a blow-by-blow account. I think she wants to watch, sometime.”

James moans, then turns his face and bites at the pillow. His face is on fire.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Sir,” John says, voice warm and full of promise.

It’s all James can do under the onslaught; his cock, the traitor, is more than half-hard already and James knows from experience that it won’t need much encouragement to get all the way there.

He’s completely lost when John’s hand slides lower, lightly teases him through the thin hospital gown. There’s a hint of pressure, but for the most part all James can discern is the heat. If his stomach weren’t so tender, he’d be straining his hips up, seeking friction and sensation.

“Good,” John murmurs, nipping once more at his earlobe before sucking at his neck. “Very good, sir.”

To James’s eternal shame, there is nothing he can do. He can hardly move as he’d like, but John continues to tease and James merely wants more.

And then, suddenly, John is pulling back, sitting up straight, and James groans. “Well, this is promising,” John comments, grinning. “But I can’t really linger. Don’t want to get caught.” 

He stands and winks, utterly enjoying James’s frustration. “Look us up when you get out. Mary and I would love to see you, sir.”

“John,” James moans, feeling desperate as he watches John walk towards the door. 

John turns back to face him, smirking. “You get some rest, sir, and don’t worry about that,” he says, nodding towards James’s erection, clearly visible through the hospital gown. “Maybe next time, eh?”


End file.
